Comfortably Numb
by The Real Shock Wave
Summary: Dr. Jonathan Crane, professor of psychology at Gotham U., aspires to greatness in the study of fear. Unfortunately, his students are about to become his guinea pigs as he develops and tests his fear toxins.
1. Chapter 1

"In most cases, agoraphobia begins in the early stages of adulthood, between the ages of eighteen and thirty-five. This is how it differs from most other phobias which have their roots in the subject's childhood. In fact, it rarely occurs in children at all. However, childhood anxieties such as school phobia or a fear of leaving parents may sensitize someone to agoraphobia later in life. Either case can reflect a generally fearful nature."

Dr. Jonathan Crane, adorned in an expensive Italian suit, stood lecturing his psychology class in a musty old classroom at Gotham University. The room was quite expansive with a hardwood floor, rich mahogany walls, and tall windows that let the sunlight pour in over the rows of tiered seats where his students sat stiffly, barely paying attention. Crane didn't care, though. The very subject of his speech fascinated him and if these pathetic simpletons couldn't appreciate what he had to share with them, then it was their own loss.

Pausing a moment to adjust his rectangular glasses, he continued, "For most, a sudden and spontaneous panic attack is to blame for their onset of agoraphobia. Panic attacks, as we all know, are—." Suddenly the bell signaling the end of the period cut him off and the room filled with a cacophony of screeching seats, shuffling papers, and bustling feet. As they hurried to leave, Crane attempted to be heard above the din. "Don't forget to read Adler, pages two forty-seven through two ninety-three!" As they left, he took a moment to reflect on how unworthy they were of his time. All but one. Phoebe Watson, the only student who paid attention to what he had to teach, was a bright, clever young woman who always had something constructive to add to his lessons. It was clear to Crane that she would go far in the psychology world.

Footsteps echoing on the hardwood floor, he crossed the room to his large oak desk and began packing up his lesson plan, notes, and various other papers into his ever-present briefcase. Made from the finest black leather, the case was one of his prized possessions and he never let it out of his sight, even for a moment.

As Crane sat in the quiet tranquillity of the deserted classroom, he ran a hand through his dark brown locks and peered at the door out of the corner of his eye. He was alone. Taking a key from his pocket, he set his briefcase on the floor beside his chair and unlocked the bottom drawer of the desk. Slowly reaching inside, he pulled out a small black binder, overflowing with reports, hastily scribbled notes, and photocopied articles. Opening the binder, he poured over the material, immersing himself in his life's work.

Ever since he was a boy, Crane had been fascinated by fear. What caused it? Why was it so prevalent? How could it be conquered? The binder was a log of his studies, the product of all his research, and the guidebook for his own theory. A subject could conquer his fears through gradual exposure to a limited stimulus. Logically, Crane thought, if a subject were exposed to an enormous and prolonged stimulus, the sudden jolt would shock the subject out of their terror. It could be done, he _knew_ it could be done. The only question in his mind was "how?"

Unconsciously, he began mumbling to himself as he searched his notes for some answer, some clue that had previously eluded him. "Some kind of drug therapy…" he muttered. "Something that could be easily administered to increase anxiety and induce panic…" A lightbulb suddenly clicked on in his head. "Anxiogenic drugs, that's it." He began flipping furiously through pages in the binder, trying to find the appropriate notes. "Let's see, anxiogenics, anxiogenics… Ah, here!" Stabbing his finger down on the page, he began reading to himself. _The right hemispherical amygdala is responsible for the brain's "fear" response as well as a host of other negative emotions._ He needed a drug that stimulated the right amygdala, or at least suppressed the left, which produces positive emotions.

He continued his feverish search, trying to find some other reference to the amygdala in relation to drug therapy. Before he could finish, the classroom door banged open and Crane jumped in his seat, heart racing. "What in God's name do you think you're doing, can't you see I'm busy?" he snarled at the interloper. Standing in the doorway was a man in a dark blue janitor's coverall holding a mop. Behind him in the hallway sat a wheeled-bucket of soapy water.

The janitor looked meekly between Crane and the clock on the wall, stammering, "I-I'm sorry Doctor… but don't you think it's getting a bit late?" Crane looked to the wall and saw that it was well past seven o'clock; he'd been sitting there for over four hours. Grudgingly, he placed the binder back in the drawer, locked it, and stormed out of the classroom, briefcase in hand. He'd felt so _close!_

The following morning, Crane felt cheerful as he strolled across the Gotham U. campus. The sun shone brightly, birds chirped merrily, and students chattered whatever it was students chattered about. He felt as though nothing could spoil his mood. Then the football hit him in the back of the head. Crane staggered forward, more out of surprise than the actual force of the blow. He turned, his icy blue eyes blazing and an expression of rage on his youthful features. "Who threw that?" he demanded.

As Crane expected, the school's starting quarterback, Greg Hammond, jogged up to retrieve the ball. "Sorry about that, Dr. Crane," the boy apologized, mock sincerely. "Guess it just got away from me." Greg was one of Crane's more inattentive students, with the worst grades in the class. He was a full head taller than the doctor and twice as wide. He generally relied on his size for intimidation, something that didn't work on Crane.

"A likely story. I'll see you in class." At that, Crane turned and marched angrily the rest of the way to the psychology department, overhearing the athletes' referring to him as "Scarecrow". His cheeks burned at the nickname; like his fascination with fear, the label had stuck with him since childhood, his scrawny build the constant target of bullies and their ilk.

After an hour of preparation, it was time for Crane's first class of the day. He stepped into the classroom and headed toward his desk at a brisk walk, the buzz of conversations covering his footsteps. "I hope you all did your reading last night," he said, setting his briefcase down on the smooth oak finish. "Because I will be asking questions throughout today's lesson." Sitting down, he noticed Greg, sitting in the back, lean over to his friend and whisper something, a grin spread across his young face. Surely just another scarecrow joke the peon found amusing.

Sitting down, Crane opened the top drawer of his desk and immediately let out an annoyed sigh. Standing back up, he held up what had been staring back up at him from the drawer: an old scarecrow's head made of burlap with a length of rope tied in a hangman's knot around it's neck and the straw taken out. Its mouth was stitched in a wicked, almost manic-looking grin and its eyes were ragged holes cut in the cloth. Addressing the class, his voice thick with irritation, he asked, "Who's responsible for this?" Crane looked across the seated group, all of them silent, some trying to hide their laughter, others looking appalled by the grotesque mask.

"I've heard all the jokes and whispers and impersonations," Crane went on, growing more and more annoyed as they continued to deny any complicity in the act. He had a hunch it was Greg, that smug, overbearing, jock. "No one wants to step forward?" He paused, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "Alright, fine. By tomorrow morning you will each have a twenty page essay on Jungian archetypes on my desk with complete works cited." He paused as his class let out a collective groan. "I want you to focus on how they affect one's perceptions of their relationships with themselves and others." Setting the scarecrow mask beside his briefcase, he changed the subject, a hint of satisfaction in his voice. "Now, let's continue our discussion of agoraphobia and its causes, shall we?"

That night, Crane brought the binder home with him. He sat in his study, the walls lined with psychology books like some mansion's personal library. With the sleeves of his shirt rolled up and the knot of his tie loosened, he desperately flipped through pages, looking for the secret to testing his theory.

_Need more information, can't find anything on stimulating the amygdala without electrical current. That's completely out of the question for what I hope to achieve. Some other type of drug, something to produce anxiety and, with it, fear… Sodium lactate! That's it! It can be injected directly into the bloodstream and produces panic attacks in anxiety prone individuals._

He removed his glasses and ran a hand over his tired face. He'd been at it for hours now, well on past midnight. _Unfortunately it has no affect in "normal" people. It needs to be coupled with something, something to make a person feel afraid, then the sodium lactate can turn that into full blown terror… A hallucinogen, perhaps… Something potent but non addictive. Let's see… hallucinations… hallucinogens… Lysergic acid diethylamide sounds promising; can be injected along with the sodium lactate, non addictive, effects last eight to ten hours, and it's the most potent hallucinogenic drug known to man. Dimethyltryptamine also looks promising. Acquiring them, though, that'll be the tricky part… _A thin smile crossed his lips. _Like I'm going to let a little thing like _legality_ stand between me and greatness._ His methods would propel modern psychology and treatment of phobias and fears into a grand new era of understanding, he just knew it. Tiredly, he glanced over at the burlap mask sitting on his desk, grinning back at him. "I'll be more famous than Freud," he told it. It just kept on grinning.


	2. Chapter 2

Two nights later, Crane walked alone through the run-down, ghetto portion of Gotham City known as the Narrows, as always carrying his briefcase in one hand. It was a cold night and he kept the collar of the trenchcoat he wore flipped up, partially to conceal his face. Rain fell in a thin mist, making it seem as though it weren't falling at all but rather just hanging in the air. Beyond the mouth of the alley he stood in, Crane could hear the ever-present noise of the city; shouting people, cars driving by, and the occasional gunshot.

He knew the Narrows well; it was home to Arkham Asylum, where he worked as a therapist for the criminally insane, aside from his day job as a college professor. It wouldn't take him long to find what he was looking for and he paused in the alley to wipe the moisture from his glasses. Just as he predicted, a ragged looking man with a scraggly beard and a very shabby hooded sweatshirt stepped up to him from out of the shadows. He appeared like a specter in a child's nightmare but Crane didn't so much as flinch. "Hello there," the doctor greeted him in a low but still pleasant voice.

The bum narrowed his eyes at Crane, furrowing his brow. "There somethin' yer lookin' fer?" he asked, moving slowly toward him. Obviously Crane's cheerful demeanor was unexpected, as was his fancy suit. It wouldn't be a surprise if he looked rather suspicious to the fellow.

"As a matter of fact, yes," Crane answered brightly, voice still low. "I'm looking to score some Acid."

The bum looked at him incredulously. "You a cop?"

Crane shook his head, drops a water dripping from his damp hair. "Not at all. I'm just looking to have a good time." Reaching into his trenchcoat, he pulled out an envelope. "And I'm more than willing to pay for it, of course." He held out his hand. The bum eyed it a moment, glancing between the envelope and Crane's vibrant blue stare.

"How much you lookin' to get?" the bum asked, scratching his beard.

The doctor titled his head to one side and stated, "How much of the pure stuff can I get for two hundred thousand?" The bum's eyes went wide. "It's for some friends," he explained. "Very important, influential friends."

The bum grinned, showing broken yellow teeth that turned Crane's stomach. "Yer in luck then. I can getcha two hundred kilos of pure powder."

"When?"

The bum took the envelope from Crane's hand. Stuffing it into a pocket of his sweatshirt, he replied, "Take me about an hour to get it all together. Be here then." With that, the bum scampered off down the alley, leaving Crane standing in the rain.

"When an agoraphobic attack occurs, there are several biochemical and autonomic changes that accompany it," Dr. Crane tiredly explained to his class the next day. "These physical changes include increased heart rate and elevated blood pressure." As he droned on about agoraphobia, he went over the next steps that had to be taken in the back of his mind. He had to somehow sneak into the chemistry lab and make off with as much sodium lactate as he could. He had gotten all the LSD he needed the night before and could begin synthetically producing it himself. He'd spent the rest of the night setting up a laboratory in his basement where he liquefied the lysergic acid diethylamide in preparation for its combination with the sodium lactate. He'd been up all night and was now paying for it as he looked and felt like the walking dead. His hair was tousled and dark rings hung beneath his eyes as he lectured his students.

Blessedly, his savior came in the form of the end of period bell. As the class shuffled about in their haste to leave, Crane stepped over to his desk and took an empty sip from the coffee thermos he'd brought to work with him. Sitting down, he removed his glasses and rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes, fighting the encroaching exhaustion. He was faintly aware of someone standing before the desk. "Yes?" he asked, looking up and seeing Phoebe Watson biting her lower lip nervously.

"Are you all right, Dr. Crane?" she asked, a worried look on her attractive face. Her straw-blonde hair hung down just above her shoulders and her grey eyes told Crane that her concern was genuine.

"Just a little tired is all," he answered, smiling up at her. Sitting up straight, he asked, "Is there something you wanted, Phoebe?"

"Just wanted to see if you were okay. You didn't seem as enthused during your lesson today."

"Well it's not like anyone appreciates what I have to teach, Miss Watson," he commented dryly.

"I appreciate it, doctor. I think it's all so fascinating." She paused, biting her lip again. "I… I heard about what Greg did… with the scarecrow's head…"

"It's nothing," he replied amiably. "Just a childish prank. But you should run along to you're next class." Much as he appreciated the girl's concern, he needed to get to the chemistry lab.

"Okay. I hope you feel better, Dr. Crane." With that, she turned and hurried out of the room.

_Silly girl,_ Crane thought as he watched her go. For a moment he entertained the notion that she may possibly be infatuated with him. He was by no means old, after all. Quite the contrary, as a matter of fact; he looked barely into his twenties. _Enough of this,_ he chided himself. It was time to get to work.

Taking the thermos by the handle, he strolled casually down the hall toward the science department, his footsteps echoing off the high ceiling as he went. Finally he stood just outside the Gotham University chemistry lab. Stealing a glance in every conceivable direction, he ensured that not a sole was in sight as he crept through the door, the words "Chemistry Lab" stenciled on the fogged glass window. Silently, he sneaked through the darkened room, stalking between the lab tables like a cat, clutching the empty thermos protectively in both hands. Without a sound, he made his way across the black-and-white checkered tile floor to the back of the room, to the cabinet where all the chemicals were stored in gallon-sized plastic jugs. His heart thumped faster against his ribs as he neared it. Reaching out with one thin hand, he turned the handle and the door swung easily open on well-oiled hinges. Extracting a jug labeled C3H5O3Na, he unscrewed the lid of the thermos and began filling it with the odorless, pale yellow liquid.

Suddenly there was a noise from outside. Crane spun around, eyes going wide as dinner plates. Hastily he screwed the cap back onto the thermos and replaced the chemical jug in the cabinet. Softly, he padded back toward the front of the room, heart racing. Then the door knob squeaked as it began to turn. _Oh crap!_ Crane's mind raced. The implications of him being caught in the chemistry lab with the lights off and a thermos full of sodium lactate were just a tad suspicious. Looking about desperately for some place to hide, he settled for the lab table nearest him. Diving behind the thick slab just in time, he crawled into the small, cramped bottom cabinet as the lights clicked on and a set of footsteps could be heard on the tiled floor. As he shoved lab equipment aside, Crane heard something else, a set of squeaking wheels. "What is it about janitors interrupting my work?" he hissed to himself silently. As it was, he had no choice but to hunker down and wait for this blue-collar simpleton to finish.

An hour later, Crane awoke. He hadn't even realized he'd dozed off and found that he'd lost all feeling in his legs and his neck had gone incredibly stiff. Opening the small cabinet door a crack, he peered out into the darkened room. Not a sound greeted his ears and he hurriedly spilled out onto the floor. Standing up, he brushed off his suit and ran a hand through his messy hair. Snatching up the thermos, he beat a hasty retreat, thanking his lucky stars that the doors in the school locked from the outside only.

Crane's basement was old and musty, with cobwebs smothering the ceiling and corners. The doctor half expected to see the Phantom of the Opera every time he came down there. In the center of the main room sat a table covered in beakers, test tubes, vials, and other miscellaneous lab equipment. From the ceiling hung a single naked bulb, casting it's bright white light over everything, banishing most of the shadows but enhancing others. In the far corner was a bookcase, brimming with psychology texts and beside the stairs was a heavy safe. An open doorway led off into another room of the basement that he'd so far left empty. In his own opinion, Crane felt he did rather well at transforming his basement into Frankenstein's Castle.

Setting the thermos down on the table, he turned and removed his suit jacket. Underneath, he wore a navy blue wool sweater with polyester patches on the elbows. Kneeling down before the safe, he turned the dial several times until he'd entered the combination and pulled the heavy door open. Reaching inside, he pulled out a flask of the lysergic acid diethylamide and set it on the table next to the thermos. He'd managed to get it half full of sodium lactate before he'd been interrupted, but it was enough to create a test dose. He hoped.

_But I need a test subject,_ he thought idly to himself, rubbing his chin conscientiously. _Arkham is full of people nobody would miss… but those crazies are no good for testing, I need someone relatively normal. Inmates are better suited to receiving the finished product._ A thought struck him, a sudden, simple, guilty thought. One of his students. One who would have no objections to aiding him in a few "experiments". He knew the perfect candidate and he almost hated himself for it. He glanced over at a hook on the wall where the scarecrow mask hung, grinning evilly at him. For some reason, he didn't remember hanging it there.

_Almost…_


	3. Chapter 3

Rain beat against the large panes of glass in sheets that nearly drown out Dr. Crane's daily lecture. With a laser pointer, he indicated various sections on a diagram of the human brain projected onto the blackboard. "Here we have the amygdala. This small organ is roughly almond shaped and can be found approximately one inch within the brain at the left and right temples. It is commonly referred to in the singular, but note that there are in fact two of them." Lightning flashed outside and Crane paused a moment until the accompanying rumble of thunder passed. "The left hemispherical amygdala is associated with positive emotions while the right can be traced to such negatives as aggression, defensiveness, and fear," he continued. "Naturally you can see why this part of the limbic system is such a fascination to psychologists." With that he turned to the clock and the bell rang. He smugly patted himself on the back for having finished the lesson on time. _Now onto stage two._

As the classroom emptied, Crane straightened his tie and deftly approached Phoebe while she gathered up her materials. With his most charming smile on his face, he asked, "Pardon me, Miss Watson, but may I have a word with you?"

Phoebe nearly jumped and her head snapped up to see him standing before her, hands folded in front of him. Regaining her composure, she answered, "Yes Dr. Crane?"

Crane took a deep breath before replying, hoping the theatricality would help persuade the girl. "Well, it's just you've been doing so well in the class, I thought perhaps you wouldn't mind aiding me in a series of experiments."

An eager light shone in Phoebe's eyes. "Oh, I'd love to help, doctor. What sort of experiments?" Another low rumble shook the classroom's windows.

Just as Crane had predicted she'd react. "I merely wish to observe your behavior in a controlled environment as well as your response to certain stimuli." This girl was so easy to manipulate. So eager to please, so willing to do whatever he asked of her. If only there were more like her, he wouldn't have needed spoil his most apt pupil. _Ah well, such is life after all._

"It's a behavioral study?"

"Yes Miss Watson, one I've been looking forward to for quite some time." He gave her another charming smile, knowing already that he had her right where he wanted her. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulled out a notepad and pen and scribbled down his address. "Is tomorrow night acceptable?"

Phoebe thought for a moment, her brow wrinkling as she considered the proposition. Then her smile returned and she responded, "Tomorrow will be fine, Dr. Crane."

Handing her the slip of paper, he replied, "Please, call me Jonathan. After all, we are going to be colleagues in this little endeavor, won't we?"

With a small, girlish giggle, she took his address and scampered out of the room. Watching her go, Crane shook his head as a triumphant grin crossed his face. Far too easy. He nearly pitied her.

Outside the classroom, Greg Hammond fell into step beside Phoebe. "You're out late," he commented dryly. Clasping his hands together and giving her a "Bambi-eyed" look, he teased, "Lost track of time swooning over Johnny?"

The crowded hallway was a buzz of conversations as she looked at him, chuckling. "Shut up. It's nothing like that." Squeezing between an amorous couple, she continued, "Dr. Crane is a brilliant man and I have nothing but the utmost respect for him." She shot him a glare. "And that was a very childish thing you did to him."

"Oh come on," Greg protested. "The guy's a grown man and he looks like my kid brother." For a moment they walked on in silence. "So what did the Scarecrow want?"

"Greg!" she hissed, he anger flaring at his use of the nickname. He raised his hands placatingly and she went on, still fuming. "He just wanted my help in a behavioral study he's going to be doing."

The football player rolled his eyes. "Sounds real romantic, Phoebe," he said sarcastically.

"I know," she sighed heavily. "He's so handsome…" Greg eyed her strangely, arching one brown eyebrow. After a beat, she burst out laughing and punched him lightly in his muscled arm. "Gotcha!" she laughed and stood up on her toes to kiss him on the cheek.

The following night, Crane sat in his den reading a copy of Watson's Behaviorism, sipping at a steaming cup of tea. A sharp knocking on the front door roused him from his concentration and he set the book aside. Getting up, he crossed into the foyer and opened the door, smiling warmly at the girl standing on his porch. "Welcome, Phoebe, do come in," he greeted her, taking her coat and hanging it beside the door next to his own. He then turned, leading her into his house. "Please, right this way. Would you like some tea?"

Nodding as she followed him into the kitchen, Phoebe replied, "Yes, please. What sort of behavior did you plan on observing, Dr. Crane—er—Jonathan?"

"Oh… everyday behavior…" he replied, rummaging through the cabinets for a mug. She didn't notice him drop a single water-soluble tablet into it before he poured the hot liquid, then stirred it with a small spoon to make it dissolve. Handing it to her with a grin, he said, "I do hope you don't suspect any ulterior motive on my part."

"No, not at all," she said in a rush, taking the mug in one hand and wrapping her fingers around the warm ceramic. She blushed as he eyed her with amusement. Avoiding his gaze, she took a moment to look around at the homey decoration of the kitchen, the wooden cabinets, the small table with only two chairs, the counter he leaned against casually.

As she took a sip of the spiked beverage, Crane's heart leapt for joy. The knockout drop he'd placed in her drink wasn't part of the experiment, but it was necessary for him to be able to administer his drug without her knowing. "Tell me, how was your drive over?" he asked conversationally.

Her eyelids drooped and she mumbled a barely intelligible, "Fine." The tablet worked fast, Crane was impressed. She seemed to have trouble keeping her balance.

"Are you alright?" he asked, knowing full well she wasn't. Inside he felt like a kid in a candy store, barely able to contain his elation. As much as he may have pitied her, he couldn't overcome his excitement. Before she could answer, the mug fell from her hands, shattering on the floor, spilling its contents across the linoleum tile. She soon followed it, collapsing into unconsciousness.

There was a distant sound, like a voice, that came to her through the darkness. Phoebe felt as though she were submerged in water until a foul odor assaulted her nostrils and her eyes fluttered open. She stared into the worried face of Dr. Crane, a small vial of smelling salts in his hand. "Miss Watson, are you all right?" he asked.

"What… happened?" she moaned, her throat scratchy. She felt groggy.

"You blacked out somehow. Are you all right?" Her vision distorted a bit. The edges blurred and strange shapes swam before her eyes. Dr. Crane's voice took on a deep, echoing tone. The lighting was unusually harsh as her eyes shot across her surroundings; everything seemed covered in thick strands of white silk. "Is something wrong?" Crane asked in that nightmarish voice.

She returned her gaze to him, shuddering uncontrollably, sweat breaking out on her forehead. Her eyes widened in terror as a pair of grotesque, dripping fangs sprouted from his mouth, clicking together hungrily. There was a tearing sound and four long, segmented legs ripped out of his body as her surroundings swirled at a breathtaking speed. She shrieked and backed away, crawling across the floor. The Crane-thing scrabbled towards her and she could no longer move, paralyzed where she sat. She looked down, tears streaming down her cheeks and saw that she was bound by the silky strands that covered everything. She tried to tear her way free but to no avail. She screamed again, overcome with terror as the giant spider that had been her professor advanced, its fangs dripping expectantly. "_Spider!_"

Crane was absolutely mesmerized by the girl's reaction to the drug. _I'm definitely on to something,_ he thought as he watched her squirm on the floor of his basement. At first she had attempted an escape but then held perfectly still, as though bound. She then screamed about a spider and now she was practically lying there catatonic. Glancing between her and his notebook, he enthusiastically wrote notes about her behavior, as well as a recommendation to up the dosage next time. He smiled to himself as he considered the possibilities.


	4. Chapter 4

That morning, Phoebe awoke with a splitting headache. Slowly she realized she was someplace familiar, someplace she knew well. She was home. _How did… what…?_ Her thoughts were disjointed, difficult to form. She opened her eyes, the throbbing in her skull protesting the small action. _What a nightmare,_ she thought with a sigh. She'd never had one that vivid before in her entire life, let alone one about her favorite teacher turning into a giant spider.

She took a deep breath as she looked around her bedroom, at the large heavy dresser, the computer sitting on the desk across from her bed, and the small bookshelf. In the corner was her school bag and a pile of textbooks. On seeing the bag, she looked to her clock and her heart leapt. She was nearly late for class. Springing out of bed she rushed to get ready and ran out the door.

Crane strolled across the Gotham University campus with an air that could only be described as gleeful. So far his experiment had gone flawlessly. After finishing his observation of Phoebe's drug reaction, he sedated her once more and took her home, placing her in her bed. If all went as it should she would wake up and explain away everything that had happened as a bad dream. There was a definite spring in the doctor's step as he congratulated himself on a perfect plot.

Across the quad, he spotted Phoebe running towards him, bag slung over one shoulder and an apologetic look on her face. Oh this was wonderful. As she stopped before him, he injected concern into his voice and asked, "Phoebe, good morning. Are you alright?"

"Dr. Crane… Jonathan…" she wheezed, trying to catch her breath. It was obvious she'd run all the way to school. Must've woken up with quite the hangover. "I'm so sorry about last night, I don't know what came over me…" Desperately she searched his eyes for a sign of forgiveness.

Crane decided to reward his test subject and asked in a worried tone, "Have you ever had a history of blacking out before?"

"Never," she replied, then after a pause, she said, " Thank you… for bringing me home."

"It's quite alright, Miss Watson, no need to thank me." He began walking toward the psychology department again and she fell into step beside him. "But if you wouldn't mind rescheduling our behavior study…?"

"Certainly doctor," she answered reassuringly. Crane could tell she was still hoping to please him. It was pathetic but welcome.

"What time would be good for you?" he asked. "Perhaps if we tried an environment a little more comfortable and familiar to you we can avoid a repeat of last time." He paused, putting on a show of thought. "Such as your apartment?" he asked.

"Um…" She scratched her straw-blonde hair, considering. "I guess that'd be okay. I'm free on Saturday if that's fine."

"Splendid," Crane beamed, rewarding her with a smile. Immediately a few ideas sprang into his head that he'd need to prepare for Saturday. Offering his hand to shake, he said, "I look forward to it."

Taking it, she smiled back at him. "So do I, Jonathan." Looking down at her watch, she added, "Oh hell, I've gotta run!" and scampered off across the campus. Crane just watched her go, chuckling to himself.

The rest of the day passed without incident as Crane slunk out of the chemistry lab with another thermos full of sodium lactate. The sun was setting and a cool autumn breeze blew through the parking lot and he whistled a merry tune as he walked to his car, a black four-door Lincoln Continental. Suddenly someone was grabbing him from behind, pinning his arms behind him and twisting them painfully. He let out a sharp hiss and dropped the thermos. _No!_ his mind screamed. _I can't lose it! I can't!_ He didn't even notice that whoever had grabbed him was now dragging him across the parking lot, his entire attention was focused on the thermos lying on the ground beside his car.

Somebody very large and wearing a ski mask grabbed his legs and manhandled him into the trunk of a nearby car. The hatch slammed shut and Crane was folded up in the dark, his only worry for the thermos. _What if it broke open when it fell? No, that's silly, it's too sturdy for that. But what if somebody finds it?_ His thoughts were distracted by the engine starting up and he was thrown forward as the car lurched into reverse, backing out of its parking space. He then flew back as it accelerated and for a moment he was able to think clearly again. _Just stay calm, Jonathan. You've been through this situation many times before. If high school taught you anything, it's that the anticipation is worse than the actual prank._ He reached up and pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose, just before the car began to bounce and vibrate. They must have been driving off road or at least on a dirt path. Crane felt like his teeth were going to rattle right out of his skull.

Then all was still for a moment until the trunk opened and four big men wearing ski masks reached in and dragged him out. He had just enough time to register that he was in a field before one grabbed his arms again and the other three began assaulting him from all sides, stuffing straw into his clothes. The stiff, brittle substance scratched his skin as more and more of it was shoved down his shirt, up his sleeves, and into his trousers. His attackers worked in a flurry, laughing and guffawing, packing more and more of it into his clothing, never relenting. When they finished, he was thrown unceremoniously back into the trunk and the car peeled off with a roar.

After another long stretch of darkness, Crane was dragged from the trunk once again, this time across the university football field. Here, his four assailants pulled him up a ladder next to one of the goal posts and tied his arms to the forked metal pole. There was a sudden flash of light as one of them took a picture. His head lolled forward as he watched them go, laughing and congratulating each other for their hysterical prank. Two of them even slapped each other a high-five. Crane hung there, his arms burning with pain, his chest heaving for breath, and his skin scratching all over because of the straw crammed into his suit.

Once they were gone, he began working his wrists, flexing and rotating them. Little by little he managed to free one from its binding. As he hung there by one arm, he laboriously reached up and untied the second piece of rope, falling to the soft earth of the football field with an audible thud, legs buckling beneath him. For a moment he just laid there, catching his breath. The sun had long since set and he just felt like falling asleep on the cool grass. Then his eyes snapped open. _My experiment!_ Scrambling to his feet, he ran all the way to his car, ignoring the constant irritation, leaving a trail of threshed wheat behind him.

Blessedly, the thermos was still there, right where he'd dropped it, and undamaged. Tossing it into his back seat, he climbed into the sedan and drove off, grumbling to himself and picking straw out of his shirt. He had a good idea as to who it was that had attacked him. As Crane made his way home, he made a mental note to repay Greg Hammond for his ride through the countryside.

Back at his house, Crane worked diligently in his basement. Wearing a pair of rubber gloves and a set of safety goggles, he carefully mixed the sodium lactate and the LSD in the proper proportions to make what he had dubbed "Fear Toxin". He'd already started to consider other means of introducing it into a subject's system but that was still in the hypothetical stages. For now he had to settle for direct injection. In his mind he began to wonder how he would be able to sedate Phoebe this time. Also, he knew he'd have to begin administering the drug without her knowing he was around, otherwise she may start to associate her "nightmares" with him. He'd come up with a few possibilities to prevent that, but it would be made much easier if he didn't need to inject her. _Like a gas or capsule or something,_ he thought idly. He'd look into it later. It would be just as easy to simply sneak into her home at night, chloroform her, and then inject her with the fear toxin without fear of her waking up.

Setting the new vials of fear toxin solution aside, he removed his gloves, pushed his goggles up on his forehead, and rubbed his aching wrists. That bastard Greg Hammond would have to be taught a lesson, but… later. Crane looked up at the scarecrow mask on its hook, grinning at him. The giddiness of his experiments quickly returned to him and he merely pursed his lips in thought, wrapping his mind around the question of sedating the girl. _It will have to be quick and she'll need to be distracted, whatever I do. I'll have her prepare a meal for herself and tell her the point is for me to observe her behavior as she does so._ He smiled to himself, pleased at how clever he was, even after the stressful evening he'd had._ At the appropriate moment it should be rather simple to slip a tablet into her drink or the meal itself._ Then, having finished his work, he packed up the fear toxin and locked it away, safe and secure. Flicking off the light, he went upstairs for a relaxed and remorseless sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

"Jonathan, please come in," Phoebe said excitedly, a warm smile on her face.

Standing in the doorway to her apartment, wearing one of his trademark fancy suits, Crane replied, "Thank you Phoebe. I appreciate your accommodation of my studies."

As he stepped across the threshold, she took his jacket and replied, "It's the least I can do to make up for what happened last time."

"Well, as I said, I merely wish to observe your everyday behavior, so please pretend I'm not even here." As he followed her into the apartment's small kitchen, he suggested, "Perhaps you'd like to fix yourself something for lunch."

"Would you like anything?" she asked.

He gave her a gracious look. "Oh no, I ate before I came over. But please, don't let that stop you. It would be just the sort of activity I need to observe." He pulled a notepad and pen from his pocket and looked to her expectantly.

"Well… alright," she said, chewing her lip. "But if you'd like something, just say so." With that, Crane crossed over to the kitchen table and put on a show of jotting down notes as she dug through her cupboards. Slowly reaching into his pocket, he palmed one of the small knockout drops.

Turning around with a packet of ramen noodles in her hand, she began looking around for a pot to boil some water in. _Perfect,_ Crane thought, the edge of his mouth turning up in an ambiguous smile. He kept writing; it was mostly gibbering nonsense. All he had to do was wait for her back to be turned for only a second and he could slip the tablet into her food.

As the pot started to bubble, Phoebe tore open the packet and dropped the block of dried ramen into the steaming liquid. Crane chuckled inwardly. _Ramen noodles… the college student's primary source of nourishment._ He was immediately glad he'd eaten before he'd come over. Suddenly the phone rang and both heads whipped around toward it in unison. Phoebe crossed the room to the wall-mounted unit and placed the receiver to her ear.

"Hello?… Oh, hi Greg!" Crane pursed his lips in thought. His chance could come any moment. "Oh nothing. Just making some lunch… Actually Dr. Crane's over right now…" She rolled her eyes. "No Greg, I told you, I'm helping him with a behavioral study." She turned her back on Crane and the stove. "You know, psychology stuff… No, I _don't_ think you should come over." Crane silently rose from his seat, creeping over to the boiling pot of noodles. "Look, tell me later, I'm in the middle of something." Ever so slowly he reached his hand over. "I love you too, sweetie."

She hung up the phone and turned around, nearly jumping out of her skin as she let out a surprised yelp. Crane stood directly behind her, writing in his notepad. He looked up, arching his eyebrows. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you." Tilting his head toward the table, he said, "I'll just go sit back down."

Her chest heaved as she caught her breath, embarrassed at her reaction to him. Tucking a strand of hair behind one ear, she turned back to the stove and stirred the noodles. Then, pouring them into a bowl, she grabbed a fork from one of the drawers and sat across from Crane at the table. His blue eyes watched her like a hawk over the edge of the paper as she began to scoop the limp strands into her mouth. He kept writing.

Crane noted that it took a little longer for the effects of the sedative to set in, attributing its cause to the added digestion of food on top of it. Nevertheless, Phoebe's eyes soon drooped and she leaned heavily on the table. Then she was out like a light, her head resting on the smooth plastic surface. Crane stood, setting down the pad and pen, and walked to his jacket, retrieving a hypodermic needle full of his fear toxin. Removing her left shoe and its accompanying sock, he located a capillary between her toes and injected the colorless fluid into her bloodstream. Replacing the footwear, he took a step back and thought, _Work your magic, my beauty. Show me the face of fear._ He decided to take a look around while she was still out cold.

Phoebe awoke groggily, pushing herself up off the table. She felt like the room was spinning and she knew that she'd done it again, she'd blacked out. Standing up, her legs shaking, she staggered around the kitchen, trying to find Dr. Crane. All around her, the colors seemed to shift and she saw her footsteps leave ripples in the floor like she were walking through a puddle. Then the walls seemed to close in on her and the room spun faster. Her heart raced, hammering in her chest like a giant metronome gone berserk. Then the door to her oven opened wide and flame belched out at her. He screamed and reeled backward, tripping over her own two feet as the fire spewed forth, _seeking_ her. She screamed louder, terrified. "Why won't anyone help me?" she shrieked. Turning over onto her stomach, she crawled on her hands and knees away from the oven toward her bedroom door. The door frame shifted unnaturally and she saw it grow teeth. _Teeth!_ She let out another frightened cry, backing away again. Scrambling across the floor, she huddled in the corner, cowering, tears streaming down her face. "This can't be happening…" she murmured over and over again, rocking herself back and forth as the nightmare images played before her eyes. She jumped up and ran, knocking the bowl of noodles off the table. The bowl shattered on the floor but there weren't noodles in it. A wriggling mass of serpents, snakes or worms or _something_, slithered around in a mass at her feet. The cupboard doors slammed open and closed, banging terribly. Phoebe couldn't take it anymore and she sank to the floor, quivering, letting those squirming things crawl over her, her flesh puckering as she felt their smooth, slimy bodies over her skin. "Please make it stop," she rasped.

Crane sat on the edge of Phoebe's bed, wrapped up in the girl's display. It was remarkable. At first she'd just hobbled around the kitchen, then she saw something near the oven that had terrified her. She'd backed away and tripped, but still tried to escape. On his notepad, he wrote, _Subject's outcry of "Why won't anyone help me" could indicate deep-set issues concerning abandonment and her own self-reliance. Subject is actually afraid to fend for herself and seeks support and/or approval from others._ He'd been puzzled when she gave up on her attempt to enter her own bedroom, a place often associated to warmth and safety. Perhaps it reflected something Freudian, but Crane didn't want to jump to that sort of conclusion about her, not yet. Sitting in the corner had revealed her issues with denial with her almost inaudibly repeated claim of "This can't be happening." She'd made one last desperate run across the room before lying down on the floor in the fetal position, twitching randomly. The last thing she said before regressing into silence was "Please make it stop."

Crane stood from the bed, pocketing the notepad and pen. He paced back and forth, considering his next move. He'd place her in her bed, just as he'd done before and quietly excuse himself from her apartment. This time, though there was something else that needed to be done. Crane walked out to the front door and rummaged through her purse, looking for the key to her apartment. Extracting the item, he held it up to the light, eyeing it closely. Then, pocketing it, he put on his suit jacket and headed out, locking the door behind him as Phoebe stayed right where he left her.

"Excuse me, young man," Crane said impatiently, pushing his glasses up his nose. He was in a rush and needed to get back to the apartment before Phoebe came down off the fear toxin.

"Yeah?" the teenager standing on the other side of the counter asked, a bored look on his multi-pierced face. He looked to Crane like he'd fallen headfirst into a tackle box.

Proffering the key to Phoebe's apartment, he stated, "I'd like a copy of this made. I want one in case I lose this and need to get back into my apartment, you see. In case of emergencies. One can never be too careful."

"Okay," the boy replied, taking it from him. "Should be about ten minutes."

"Please hurry," the doctor said, "I'm in a bit of a rush today." The teen didn't even look at him as he stepped over to the key cutter and began grinding out a new one. Crane looked at his watch, his eyes narrowing. It had taken him ten minutes to get to the department store and another five to find the hardware section. If Phoebe returned to normal on the kitchen floor, he was pretty sure his ruse wouldn't be perfect for long. It was important he appeared the part of the good doctor. Mentally he kicked himself for not sedating her and placing her in bed before he'd left to get the key copied. At least then he could have told her he went for help. _Come on… come on…_ he thought at the clerk.

Another few agonizingly slow minutes and the teenager returned holding up a new key. "Here you go, sir. That'll be $4.83." Crane reached into his wallet and threw a five onto the counter and hurried off, pocketing the keys and making his way to the parking lot.

Running all the way across the pavement to his waiting Lincoln, he unlocked the driver's side door and jumped into the seat, starting the engine. Buckling up as he backed out, he ran a hand through his hair and stepped on the gas. He had to get back to the apartment fast, there was no telling when the drug would wear off enough for her to be coherent again. Disregarding the speed limit in Gotham was no major offense and he made it back in half the time it had taken him to get to the store.

Running up to the fifth floor apartment, he arrived back inside gasping for breath. Replacing the original key in Phoebe's purse, he reached into his jacket pocket and removed the second hypo, the one to sedate her once again. Removing her right shoe and sock, he jabbed the needle between her toes and let it take its effect before heaving a sigh of relief. Then, he removed the rest of her footwear and hefted her limp body, carrying her into her bedroom where he would sit beside her bed and await her awakening, ever the concerned mentor.


	6. Chapter 6

That Monday, Crane lectured his class as per usual, but as he spoke, he never stopped assessing Phoebe's condition. "Another common phobia is the fear of bats, something universal to almost any culture," he said aloud. She looked tired, worn out. Dark circles had formed beneath her eyes and she tapped her pen against her desktop nervously. "Most people fear bats because of their symbolism of black magic, madness, and torment. They were often thought to be ghosts or a witch's familiar, believed to be capable of transporting evil spirits into the human body." She looked to be having trouble focusing, very uncharacteristic of her. People would notice.

Crane's brow furrowed at the idea but immediately smoothed as he continued with the lesson. "For the most part, bats owe their malevolent and fear-inducing reputation to their ghastly appearance, avoidance of light, and ability to hunt in total darkness, an environment that sight-oriented humans are naturally afraid of." If Phoebe's behavior was because of the drug, he'd have to find some way to cover it up, hide its cause. The wheels in his head spun furiously to think of something that could produce a stress-induced mental breakdown in someone.

Once again a brilliant, novel, _simple_ idea struck him. Glancing at the clock he saw that only five minutes remained of the class time. Returning his gaze to his students, he cupped a hand over his mouth and cleared his throat. "Starting today," he stated, no longer in lecture-mode, "I'd like you all to choose someone you can get close to and observe without their knowing. Watch what they do and take note of their behavior. After you've compiled sufficient data, I'd like you to submit a paper containing your psychological evaluation of the subject. You will have thirty days to complete this project and it by no means frees you from anything I may happen to assign between now and then." He merely had to pile on the homework and no one would doubt that Phoebe had cracked under its pressure. Cocking his head to one side, he clasped his hands behind his back and added, "Good luck." With those final words, the bell rang and the room filled with the usual shuffling of the students leaving the class.

That night, Crane sat once again in his den, this time poring over Cognitive Therapy and the Emotional Disorders by Aaron Beck. Beside the comfy upholstered chair sat his leather briefcase, shining in the bright light of the reading lamp. He was dressed in his usual dress-shirt and tie over which he wore his navy-blue sweater with the patches on the elbows. He wore a pair of simple black slacks and a shining pair of Italian loafers. Pausing, he reached over to the end table and picked up his cup of tea, cautiously sipping the hot liquid. Setting the cup back down, he casually looked at his watch. _One-Thirty,_ he thought absently. _I suppose _now_ would be a good time to check on my 'patient'._

Setting the book aside, Crane reached down and grabbed his briefcase by the handle. He rose from the chair and walked out the front door, locking it behind him. Strolling to his car, he tossed the case into the passenger seat and whistled a carefree tune. The black Lincoln roared to life as he keyed the ignition. Crane backed out of the driveway and took off into the city proper.

Minutes later he pulled into the alley beside Phoebe's building and climbed out of the vehicle, looking upward at the crumbling brick facade. A smile curled the edges of his mouth as he gazed at her black window five floors up. Looking about for something to stand on, he spotted an old couch someone had discarded beside a dumpster. Dragging it beneath the fire escape ladder, he took his briefcase in one hand and began to climb, awkwardly. _She couldn't live in a one-story, could she? No…_ he grumbled inwardly as he pulled his wiry form up to the first landing on the escape. Despite his cautious creeping, his footsteps still _clanged_ on the steel platform. His entire body froze as somewhere across the city a police siren blared, then he relaxed and continued up the next ladder. An autumn breeze whipped through the alley, chilling him to the bone as he climbed. Each step was as deafening as thunder in the still air.

Finally he made it to the fifth floor landing and crept over to Phoebe's window. Cupping his hands around his face, he nearly pressed his nose against the glass and peered into her kitchen. The room was dark and all was still. Looking at his watch, he saw that it was now two in the morning. Surely she was asleep. At that, he cautiously made his way down the ladder so that he could make the trip back up the stairs and enter through the front door. Mentally he derided himself for not leaving the briefcase behind in the car until he needed it.

Slowly, cautiously, less than a centimeter at a time, Crane turned the doorknob. A cold sweat ran down his face as he gently eased the door open and slunk into the inky blackness that was Phoebe's bedroom. Over his head he wore the burlap scarecrow mask, his bright blue eyes staring out through the holes, its gruesome, stitched-on smile leering at the girl. Behind that smile, Crane grinned fiendishly as he stood over her bed. He set the briefcase on the carpeted floor and quietly unlatched it, opening it up and removing the bottle of chloroform and a rag. Unscrewing the cap, he held the rag to the bottle and tipped it upside down. Then, cautiously so as not to wake her, he placed the rag over her mouth and nose, gently draping it across her face. He wore the mask _in case_ she woke up, _in case_ she saw him. This way she would not be able to readily identify him.

His heartbeat thudded against his ribcage, counting down the time it took for the anesthetic to take its effect. Then, reaching back down into the briefcase, he took out the needle containing his fear toxin. Tapping the side to dislodge any air bubbles, he stepped over to the foot of her bed and injected her, pressing his thumb down on the plunger. Slowly, the colorless liquid flowed out of the syringe and into her bloodstream. Crane's eyes shone with a strange sort of glee behind the mask. He no longer pitied this girl; she was just an experiment, a means to an end. His shark-like grin grew ever wider as he removed the rag from her slack features. All was going perfectly.

Crossing the room, he sat down in the swivel chair in front of her computer and took out his notepad, waiting for the show to begin. _If only I'd brought popcorn._ He chuckled softly at the thought. After about ten minutes, Crane pursed his lips in disappointment. "Guess I'll just have to wake her up myself," he sighed, getting up from the chair.

Another vial of smelling salts brought her around quickly enough and she turned a horrified look at his masked visage. "Oh God," she whispered in a small, fearful voice. She began to thrash violently and Crane took a step back to avoid being hit. "No! Stay away!" she screamed at him. She tumbled out of her bed, tangled in the sheets, and he took a step toward her. "Get back!"

Crane decided to interact with her this time. It could prove… interesting, after all. "What's the matter, Phoebe?" he croaked, injecting as much menace into his voice as he could muster. "Aren't you a little old to be scared of the dark?" He reached over and flipped the light switch on and off, just for dramatic effect. Lord knew what she was seeing in her state. She wailed in terror, curling into a ball in the corner. Returning the bedroom to darkness, he started to advance on her, slowly.

Phoebe grabbed the closest thing she could get her hands on, one of those miniature baseball bats they sell at stadiums, and swung it with all of her might, catching Crane in the knee. The doctor's leg buckled beneath him and he let out a startled yelp of pain. Before she could swing again, he rushed her, grabbing her wrist and prying her fingers from the novelty item. "Don't do that again!" he roared into her face and she let out another frightened shriek, trembling uncontrollably in his grasp. He released her and she fell back to the floor, whimpering pathetically. He limped backward, sitting down again and watching her like a hawk.

Something caught her attention because she screamed once more and recoiled from her bed. "No! NO! _NO!_" she cried, backing away frantically. Crane thought she must have seen something crawling out at her, the "bogey man" perhaps. Or maybe _he_ was the bogey man and this new arrival was merely one of his "minions". The idea was laughable and he threw his head back, laughing hysterically for her. She turned and clawed at the wall, having nowhere to escape to apparently. When that action proved fruitless, she turned on the imaginary source of danger and charged it, swinging her arms viciously. She stumbled over her bed and landed on her back, smacking her head against the bedpost. Crane reflexively winced at the dull crack her skull sounded against the wood. He saw her eyes roll up in her head and then flutter closed as she lapsed into unconsciousness.

"Well good job," he whispered reproachfully. Standing from the computer chair, he limped over to where she lay and dragged her off the floor and onto the bed. Throwing the covers over her, he gathered up his equipment and packed it away into the briefcase, along with the scarecrow mask. Combing a hand through his tousled hair, he replaced his glasses on his face and crept out of the room, eyes narrowing in frustration. _Leave it to that clumsy oaf to knock herself out before the drug was finished doing its work,_ he thought furiously. _Next time,_ he promised himself. Every time he tested the girl, he learned a little bit more. It was only a matter of opportunity.

Except every time he'd tested her, something changed. Not in her reaction, but in his. He'd noticed himself viewing her responses to the therapy less and less in a scientific fashion and more and more in an expectant, gleeful, almost _entertained_ manner. Crane buried the thought, denying that he enjoyed her suffering and telling himself that he was doing it to learn, to help further understand the nature of other people's fears. _It's for science,_ he told himself over and over again as he drove back to his home, repeating it like a mantra until he forced himself to believe it. _It's all in the name of science._ He was helping people.


End file.
